


Peeling Back the Layers

by chicagotime



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Panic Attack, armour stuff, san francisco lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29320695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chicagotime/pseuds/chicagotime
Summary: Knight Triumphant decides to be vulnerable.
Relationships: Knight Triumphant/Percival Wheeler
Comments: 3
Kudos: 3





	Peeling Back the Layers

**Author's Note:**

> Your Honour I Love Them

Soft pink light hangs in the air of a small bedroom in San Francisco like a heavy fog, free from the sharp light of day. Walls are adorned with everything from polaroids to post-it notes, each one lovingly pinned in place by a heart-shaped thumb tack. The floor is a mixture of hard mahogany floorboards and clothes (mostly cotton) that refuse to humble themselves enough to endure a simple wash. In the middle of the wall opposite the door, a bed smothered in blankets holds up Percival Wheeler, she of glossy black hair and piercing eyes and many shifting forms and pajamas that proudly yell ‘KNIGHT KNIGHT’ to Knight Triumphant, armor-clad as ever, standing in the middle of the room, twisting his fingers into several different configurations.

Percival gives him a piercing stare that’s laced with concern. “You don’t have to do this. You know that, right?”

Knight starts, and hastily untangles his appendages, small clangs of metal breaking the silence like uninvited guests. “O-of course I do, my dear, but, if I may be honest with you for but a moment, as I am wont to do -“

“Get to the point.”

“I… If I do not do this now, I fear I will never do it.”

The stare softens a little, and so does the voice. “Alright. If you’re comfortable with it.”

“Yep.”

“... Ok. Do you need me to turn around, or leave, or…?”

“Stay. Please. I would... prefer... your company.”

“Of course you would, I’m your girlfriend.”

“Of course.”

Slowly, so slowly, a trembling metal hand moves to the edge of a gauntlet. A thumb slips under it. Several slow, deep breaths are taken. He can’t do this, he shouldn’t, just stop here, here is safe - 

“Knight.”

a. ”Yes?”

“Do you need help?”

“WellwhileIappreciatetheofferyouhavejustofferedtome - “

“Too bad. I’m coming over there.”

He can’t look away from his hands. He knows he should be able to, he needs to, he can do this alone, she doesn’t need to come over - 

“Right. I’m here now.”

Fuck.

He sees a pair of hands, callused and scarred, slowly wrap around his own. Somehow, he knows her grip is gentle. Usually, that would scare him. But not now.

“We’ll push on three. Ready?”

No. “Yes.”

“One, two, _three!_ ”

They push. Together. Her more than him.

For what might have been a second, but felt like an age, the gauntlet resists, clinging desperately to the skin underneath it. But all falls before Percival Wheeler, even ridiculous pieces of metal, and the steel hand is no exception. Suddenly, it leaves Knight’s body with an unhealthy _pop_ and crashes to the floor, its fall cushioned by a particularly large sweater.

And there’s his hand. There. He can see it. He shouldn’t be able to see it. It sees him. It can’t do that. It’s shaking. It shouldn’t do that. He needs to cover it up again. Where’s his gauntlet. He needs his gauntlet. Where - 

“Knight?”

aaaaa. “Yes?”

“Look at me.”

He can’t do that right now can’t she see he’s busy trying to find his gauntlet _where is it where is the gauntlet why can’t he see it_ “I - I can’t do that. Right now. I can’t do that right now - “

Two hands grab his helmet and pull it away from the hand, forcing him to look at her face, at something that isn’t himself, and after a few seconds, he starts to breathe again.

“Knight. We can do this.”

“I - I can’t - you can see - it’s too cold - “

“Yes. I can see your hand. And?”

“And you - you shouldn’t - it’s not good - “

“Hey. Stop talking. Start breathing. Then try again.”

Breathe in. Breathe out. Slowly, thoughts start coming back to him.

“My… hand… does not look… good… and you… I am worried… you might not see me… the same way… if we continue…”

“Are you worried about people seeing your hand, or are you worried about people seeing you?”

Silence.

Then, “Both.”

Silence, but less.

Then, “Okay. First of all, so what if you have a hand that’s different from everyone else’s? That doesn’t make you a bad person. And second,” and her voice softens even more, “I will always love you, Knight Triumphant. And no suit of armor or ‘bad hand’ will ever change that. Got it?”

Pause. “Yes.”

“Good. Now let’s get the rest of this metal shit off. Do you want me to do it for you, or should we do it together?”

…

“Together.”

“Good. I’ll need your hand.” She extends her own to him, slightly longer than it should be. Without looking down, he lifts his arm up and lowers his limp hand onto hers, grimacing behind his visor. Her hand feels too accepting, refusing to withdraw, slowly placing her other hand on top of his. Fingers slip past each other like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle slowly falling into place, careful not to move where they’re not needed, and hold each other together with all the tenderness and care a moment like this needs.

The hands move up and to Knight, grasping the coulter on his elbow, and gently pull it away. It silently slides past the chainmail sleeve underneath, and the plain t-shirt under that, and is tossed to the side, landing next to the gauntlet with a soft _thump._

Neither of them look away from each other.

This continues, hands gliding over the armour, slowly but surely removing each plate from the body of a man who protects himself from things only he considers to be dangerous.

Eventually, they reach the lower half of the body (the helmet stays on though, at Knight’s insistence), and they lead each other to the bed. The greaves clink against the floor as they walk, and his grip on her hand ever so slightly - not enough to notice, but enough to give some slack to the tightly strung rope that is his mind. They sit next to each other, Knight still staring straight ahead, and they start to peel back the remaining layers of steel.

It’s Percival who breaks the silence with a muted “Fuck, Knight, how long have you been wearing this?”, but it’s Knight who keeps it broken.

“Since I was a child.” His voice is low and quiet, made quieter by the visor obscuring his expressionless face. “Not the same suit, you understand, but… yes. Since I was young.”

That’s not what she asked, but she takes the answer all the same. “Wow. Must have had some real great parents.”

“... Yes. They took a great interest in my interests and future, and supported me accordingly.”

“Sounds like it if they bought a suit of armor for you when you were just a kid.”

“... Yes. The name Knight seems appropriate in hindsight.”

Wait. “Wait. Your parents named you Knight? When you were born?”

“Yes…?”

_“Why?”_

“It’s a family tradition. When I was born, I was named after the profession my parents hoped I would have. Fortunately, I lived up to my given name.”

“... That sounds like a lot of pressure to put on a kid.”

“It… was more beneficial than anything else. I was trained by the finest warriors in San Francisco, educated in the histories of lands far beyond our own…”

“And forced to wear a metal suit?”

“... No… I wore the suit of my own volition.”

“Every day.”

“Yes.”

“Since you were a kid.”

“Yes.”

“And you never took it off.”

…

_”Knight.”_

“Yes?”

“Did you ever take the suit off?”

“Of course I did.”

“In front of other people?”

“... No.”

The hands stop on a greave, about to remove it. “You’ve spent your whole life in a suit of armor?”

If armor could sweat, droplets would be pouring from Knight’s bowl. “Well, yes, but - “

“Knight.” Percival’s voice is low and tight, restraining emotions that she knows can’t be shown right now. “You know that isn’t healthy, right?”

A pause. “Yes, but - “

“No. This didn’t make you a better Knight. This didn’t make you a better _anything._ Not taking your armour off just made you - it made you afraid to show yourself. And that’s not good. And no amount of convincing will make me think otherwise.”

…

She sighs. “Now let’s get the rest of this off.”

The hands move again, one more reluctantly than the other, making quick work of the greaves, then the poleyn, then the cuisse, until only Knight’s neck and head were hidden, and plain cloth trousers are now in view. The hands begin to move up, until one of them doesn’t.

The helmet shakes once, quickly. “Perce, my love, I don’t think I can do this.”

She breathes in, deeply, then quietly exhales. “I know. If you don’t want to, we can stop. You’ve done enough. This is… good enough.”

A pause, reluctant to end, then “No. It’s not.”

Her brow furrows, on the verge of showing irritation. “What do you mean no? If you haven’t taken this shit off in years, and now you’ve only got your helmet on, then that’s good. Great, even.”

His hands tense. “Being good enough… is not an ideal standard to strive towards. To be a Knight is to be perfect in all aspects. Being good enough is… well… not good enough.”

Percival takes his other hand, making him jump, and stares at where his eyes would be. “Knight Triumphant. There’s no such thing as being perfect. You can’t be something that no one can be, because it doesn’t exist. You’re brave, and kind, and very good at what you do, and that’s _enough._ And we can keep arguing about this, but you will never change my mind, because I know who you are, and that’s why I love you.”

They sit there, bathed in the colour of love, for a period of time best described as ‘a while’. Then, the hands move up to the visor, guided by shaking fingers, and lift the visor to reveal… a face.

It seems to have been sculpted not by a callous architect, striving for artistic excellence, but moulded by the callused hands of a potter, who savoured the time they took to create it.

It’s framed by long, seemingly well-kept hair, some of which is tied up somewhere that cannot be seen.

And its eyes are full of tears.

The two lovers embrace, and no more words are spoken that night.


End file.
